


My Immortal

by nerddowell



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, the undead, young!Philippe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: 'Well, how on earth do you think I keep looking so good day in, day out, my darling? Beauty costs.'





	My Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> No, I'm not sorry for that title. Yes, I think I'm hilarious.
> 
> For the Tumblr prompt 'Person A is undead. Person B freaks out when they don’t find a heartbeat because how are they living without a heartbeat?' Except B doesn't freak out in mine and honestly tbh it was just an excuse to write a canon-era mashup between Monchevy and Interview With The Vampire.

‘A Chevalier de Lorraine to see you, Monsieur,’ the valet announced in his typical gruff voice, casting a disparaging look toward the doors, painted robin’s egg blue and gold and standing ajar. Philippe glanced up from where he was lolling on the bed in just his nightshirt despite the fact that the sun was already climbing high into the sky, and waved for Bontemps to let his visitor in. The valet coughed pointedly behind his hand and Philippe scowled, scooping a pair of breeches up off the floor and hoicking them up around his waist before holding his arms out theatrically.

‘There. May I see him now?’

Bontemps gave the deferential nod he always did when implying disapproval and yet expected courtierly deference, and opened the door. In strode a man with glistening golden curls, brilliant blue eyes and a brocade frock coat in the same sapphire shade. There was a froth of lace cravat at his throat and more at the cuffs of his wrists, but none of this was what so enticed Philippe the moment the man entered the room. No, it was more than that. He seemed to float as if on air, his gait smooth, and he positively radiated a golden aura of youth, beauty and fickle enjoyment, everything that Philippe loved in a man.

‘Darling!’ the man cried, throwing his arms wide, and air-kissed either side of Philippe’s cheeks. He seized the young prince – and young he was, only just eighteen – and beamed at him, leaving Philippe feeling momentarily blinded by how dazzling he was. He blinked for several moments, gawping like the goldfish in Louis’ pond out in the gardens, before regaining control over himself and straightening his coat with a formal bow.

‘I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance?’

‘Oh, none of that attitude, mignonette. I’ve known you a lifetime, it feels. I’ve definitely seen those gorgeous blue eyes before.’

Philippe tried not to let how pleased he was at the flattery show, but a small smile still crept onto his face, making the Chevalier de Lorraine beam again. Philippe had never met anyone so effervescent in his life, and he had met many courtiers who always tried to keep wide smiles around his brother, their king. He was determined, however, not to let his sourness about Louis ruin a new friendship, and joined the Chevalier by the window, marvelling again at how his hair caught the light and positively gleamed like a new penny. Despite how pale he was, gold seemed to flatter his skin tone as it was everywhere in his outfit, his hair, even seemingly brushed over his cheekbones like powder to make them glimmer in the sunlight.

 _This is what a sun king should look like_ , Philippe thought to himself, and smiled at the disloyalty.

‘Indeed? Then you shall have to catch me up, I’m afraid, as I remember none of those previous lives.’

‘Well, there was the time you kissed me by a fountain in Florence. Never visit Italy again, darling, it’s filthy, and what’s worse, full of Italians.’ Philippe laughed. ‘And there was the romantic hike up the mountain in Germany, where you stood at the very peak with your lovely slippers all covered in snow and you proclaimed yourself the king of the world. You looked just like a star, with your face white and glowing under the moonlight and your eyes like diamonds. You’re the very image of Adonis, my love.’

‘And you’re terribly familiar, even for someone I have supposedly kissed and all but ruled over.’

‘Ruled over, and rolled over, my dear,’ the Chevalier said slyly, waggling his eyebrows, and Philippe’s eyes widened with an incredulous laugh.

‘Surely I could never have been so fortunate,’ he purred in his most seductive voice, threading his fingers into the Chevalier’s hair and stroking over the back of his neck. He was cold, even there where heat is usually trapped; Philippe hissed softly in sympathy and wrapped his arms around the Chevalier’s waist, resting his chin on the man’s shoulder and shooting him a cheeky smile.

‘You’re cold.’

‘Always, darling. The curse of poor circulation.’

‘I have a suggestion, should you need warming up…’

‘Do you indeed?’ the Chevalier’s head turned to smirk at him, his moustache tickling Philippe’s cheek as the prince glanced up at him through thick black eyelashes. His lips parted on a soft breath, Philippe rolled his hips suggestively against the Chevalier’s firm rear, and the man turned with a teasing growl like a hungry wolf and leapt on him, throwing him to the bed. Philippe went willingly, hair splaying out beneath him as he laughed and tore at the Chevalier’s shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons as he bit his lip and grinned up at him.

* * *

The Chevalier left the boy-prince sleeping on the bed, sweaty and sated and a temptation even then, his black hair spilled over the pillow like Ophelia in her river. The sun had set outside, the sky a deep greyish-blue studded with stars, and the moon was just peeking through the clouds as he sat down at the card table in the salon adjoining the young Monsieur’s chambers. He pulled a pack of cards out of his pocket and decided to play solitaire by candlelight, matching numbers and suits mindlessly as he allowed his mind to wander over to the teenager sleeping in the bed next door.

Not the youngest he’d ever had – he came from a time where ‘too young’ was limited solely to children only just breeched – but neither was the prince the eldest. He’d never had a prince, though. A princess, a couple of dukes, the odd lonely widowed Queen, but never a prince. He was sure by now that royal flesh had a different feel beneath his hands, a different taste in his mouth when he bit in the height of passions. Royal voices were brighter and deeper in his ears as they cried out, arching bodies beneath him until they went slack. There was a definite addiction there, one of his many.

He hadn’t been lying, however, when he told the boy he was the most beautiful. He’s sure people get more beautiful the further down the familial line one gets, and Philippe has a soft, almost feminine sort of beauty distinctly lacking from his brother, for example; but he shares Louis’ drive, and his temper – fiery when roused – was sharper and burned hotter. If the Chevalier ever came anywhere close to love, he was almost certain he could feel it for this boy.

He rubbed at his mouth thoughtfully, massaging the ache out of his jaws, and slapped the next couple of cards down. He should be thinking more carefully about the boy, about the corruption he could wreak on such a wonderful soul, but it had never stopped him before and now was hardly the time to grow a conscience, however weak. Worse, he could hurt him; push a little too hard next time, dig his claws in a little too much and accidentally tear the poor thing to shreds. He could practically feel the valet’s disapproving gaze on the back of his neck from the King’s chambers. He shrugged his shoulders and looked up with a smile as the shuffling of feet on the floor heralded the Prince rising from his slumber before Philippe appeared around the door with a sleepy, sated smile.

‘I trust you slept well?’

‘You tired me out rather,’ Philippe said, blushing lightly, and he looked so delectable that the Chevalier wanted to sweep to his feet and just take a nibble out of one of those rosy cheeks. He was such a sweet little thing, his eyes so bright on the Chevalier’s face, already enamoured. And the Chevalier made it easy for him, he thought to himself, with a rare twinge of conscience.

‘One does have the tendency to do that to one’s admirers and detractors alike,’ the Chevalier said with a charming smile, and stood, offering Philippe his arm as he strolled towards the window, pointing up at the moon.

‘That’s what you looked like, up on that mountain.’

‘I should hope I was a great deal less round,’ Philippe said, slapping at his taut stomach, and grinned.

‘Of course,’ the Chevalier said, smoothing Philippe’s hair off his shoulder, leaving the creamy white column of his throat exposed, careful not to brush the new marks of passion with his fingernails in case they were tender. He admired his work with a smirk as the Prince continued to gaze at the night sky for a long moment before tucking his chin shyly, smiling at the Chevalier.

‘What are you looking at?’

‘The most beautiful creature in the world.’

‘And exactly how worldly are you, Chevalier?’ Philippe asked, smiling. ‘If the only places you’ve seen are our dear France and Italy, I shall have to name you an incorrigible flatterer and inexperienced besides.’

‘I’ve travelled the whole earth, my love,’ he said with utmost sincerity, eyes sparkling. ‘Every nation you can think of, and more besides.’

‘Liar,’ the Prince said fondly, leaning his head against the Chevalier’s shoulder, and the Chevalier wrapped an arm around his shoulders, squeezing gently. The young Monsieur flinched with a wince, his eyes wide.

‘You’re cold again!’

‘As I said, my love, poor circulation.’

‘I may have to feel your heart to see if it’s warming you as it should,’ joked Philippe, pressing his hand to the centre of the Chevalier’s chest. He frowned, shifting his fingertips, but there was no thrumming beneath his hand, the sign of a healthy heart driving blood around the body and animating its owner. The Chevalier took his hand gently, raising it to his mouth and smiling.

‘So poor, in fact, as to be almost non-existent.’

‘That explains your paleness,’ Philippe murmured, feeling all of a sudden a little dizzy. He wavered on his feet and the Chevalier quickly stooped to thread an arm around his waist, catching him as he stumbled backwards.

‘You should rest.’ He carried the boy back to the bed, laying him down.

‘I feel… weak… all of a sudden,’ the Prince complained, rubbing at a spot of redness on the juncture of his neck, scratching at an itch.

‘I know. Physical exertions can take it out of one.’ The Chevalier smiled softly, tucking the Prince beneath the coverlet. Monsieur protested weakly for a couple of moments before giving in to his exhaustion and yawning, settling beneath the covers and falling asleep almost instantly. The Chevalier stroked his hair off his face, rubbing a cool knuckle over the marks on his neck, and glanced at the mirror on the wall. Philippe, angelic in his slumber, was reflected in the glass, white against the ruby of the bedsheets. Alone in the bed.


End file.
